The Tea House on Mulberry Street (16 page)

Stop it, she told herself. Stop daydreaming. That was all such a long time ago. And it was probably nothing, anyway. It probably meant nothing to him. He was just being nice to me because I was an innocent teenager. He wouldn’t know me now if he met me on the street. Oh, I’m such a drama-queen…

But, it was no good. She was going to have to go there again, for a last look. One last look at her old flat and Muldoon’s, and that would be the end of it.

She put on her blue coat, and a navy felt hat that came right down to her eyes, and she left the hotel. She walked slowly along Shaftesbury Square, stopping to look in the window of a new art gallery, and then along the Lisburn Road, and turned eventually, into Mulberry Street.

The cafe was open. The owners hadn’t changed it one bit in all this time. Not even the sign. It was a strange little place, really. It was like a magical shop in a children’s book; ordinary-looking from the outside but magical within. Or was her imagination just running wild again?

The moon and stars were visible in the sky. It was getting dark. The overhead lamps in the tea house made a bright pool of light on the pavement, criss-crossed by the shadows of the people inside. There were quite a few customers sitting at the tables, at that moment. In fact, she couldn’t see one empty table, and she didn’t want to have to share with anyone. That would mean another long chat about America. She wanted to be alone with her memories. She would not go in yet.

She walked on a few steps and stood looking up at the window of the tiny flat where she had spent the night with Peter, all those years ago. Such a small little window. The very sight of it made her shiver. There were dandelions growing on the sill, she noticed.

A pale face appeared at the dark window, with a black fringe hanging over one eye. Clare froze with the shock of it. The short black hair and the prominent cheekbones were the same. She was shaking and her hands went up to her mouth. But of course it wasn’t Peter. He would be forty by now. She must be going mad. Then, the apparition looked right at her and she realised suddenly the pale face was that of a young woman. And she looked almost as shocked as Clare was, herself. Clare hurried away down the street but seconds later she heard the sound of a door opening, and Brenda Brown was calling after her.

“Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“That’s okay. I thought you were going to collapse or something. That’s all. But I’ve lived here for years. Are you sure you have the right address?”

“Oh, yes. But the person I knew never lived here. I did. You just look like – them, a little bit, that’s all.” Clare was reluctant to tell Brenda that she had spent the night with a man she had only known for a few hours, twenty years earlier. Or that she had mistaken Brenda for a boy. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and turned to leave.

“Please don’t go! Not yet. Have a cup of tea, at least. Would you like to come in and sit down for a minute? You look very shaken. I’m Brenda Brown, by the way. I’m an artist.”

“Clare Fitzgerald. Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.

Clare knew she shouldn’t go in. It was asking for trouble. She wasn’t sure she could handle the emotional minefield of seeing her old home. But she went up the stairs like a robot and entered the first-floor flat without saying a word. Brenda hovered behind her as she went into the sitting-room.

“My God,” said Clare, “it’s just the same. The same carpet, the same table, the same sofa. The furniture hasn’t even been moved. There’s nothing different at all.”

“Yes, well, the landlord is a total Scrooge. I daresay it is the same.”

“You’re an artist, you say?” Clare was standing in the middle of the room. She was looking at the paintings stacked around the walls. Her curiosity was aroused in spite of the upsetting circumstances.

“Yes.”

“What do you paint?”

“Oh. Things. Sad things.” Now that Brenda finally had an interested audience, she couldn’t think of one profound thing to say. “Just ordinary people. Disappointed people.”

“Do you sell them?”

“Yes and no. They’re for sale, but nobody ever buys them.”

“Can I look?”

“Feel free,” said Brenda, handing Clare a list of the titles.

Clare read the list aloud.
“Waiting for Silence, The End Of The Day, A Belfast Mother, A Shankill Kitchen, Waiting For The Priest, Waiting For Dawn…”

“Mmmm,” said Brenda. “There’s a lot of waiting, isn’t there?”

Clare looked at the paintings for a little while. She thought they were good. A little over-the-top. But good. A lot of potential, if the subject matter was less intense.

“Can I see the bedroom?” asked Clare suddenly. For a moment, Brenda thought she was talking about a painting called
The Bedroom
. She was puzzled. Had she a painting somewhere, called that? Then she realised that this strange woman wanted to see her actual bedroom. Brenda was worried. This glamorous stranger might well be mentally ill, asking to see someone’s private rooms. But something in the older woman’s face was calm and reassuring.

“It’s in there,” she said, indicating an open door in the hall.

“I know where it is,” said Clare, and she went in as Brenda hovered in the doorway. It was the same bed: a cheap, wrought-iron Victorian bed with part of the flower-design missing. Faded floral wallpaper. A kitchen chair instead of a locker. Only the carpet was different. Plain grey. (That was Brenda’s doing. She had ruined the old one by dropping a tube of oil-paint on it. Months, it took her, to save up for that new carpet.)

“The carpet in this room used to be as awful as the wallpaper,” Clare said. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

Brenda looked away while Clare dried her eyes. Would this emotional woman buy a painting, she wondered. She could do with the money but she didn’t like to ask.

“So? You say, you used to live here?”

“Yes,” said Clare. “I was a student here, ages and ages ago. I lived here in this very flat for a year or so.”

“Survived here, you mean,” said Brenda. “It’s like Siberia, in the winter.”

“Still no central heating? It shouldn’t be allowed in this day and age. I still have a spare key, actually. At home, somewhere.”

“Locks have been changed a few times,” said Brenda, “judging by the state of the door.” She hesitated, looking at Clare. “Who did you think I was?”

“Well, I just thought you were an old friend of mine.”

“What was her name?”

“That’s the funny thing… it was a boy, actually, with the same hairstyle. I mean, I couldn’t really see your face behind the fringe. You don’t look like a boy at all, of course.”

“Old boyfriend, was it?”

“Yes and no, to borrow your phrase. I didn’t know him that long but I was hoping it would lead to something special. Just an instinct I had.”

“Yes. I know what you mean. Sometimes, you just know.”

“Seeing anyone special yourself?” Clare thought she had better say something normal to lighten the strained atmosphere.

“Yes. I am.” Brenda wondered why she had said that.

“Are you in love with him? I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I’m terrible for asking. I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“It’s okay. Well, yes, I am in love, but it’s not easy for us. He doesn’t live in Belfast.”

“Where does he live?”

“He lives in America.”

“Wow. So do I. What part?”

“Los Angeles.”

“I’m based in New York. What’s his name?”

Brenda thought of telling the truth, but then she decided to bend it a little. She thought of the film, Moonstruck.

“He’s called Nic. He’s a – a baker. He bakes bread. It’s a family business.”

“Really?” said Clare. “How fascinating. Listen, speaking of bread, I’m starving. Why don’t we go next door, and get something to eat. My treat. And you can tell me all about it.”

Brenda hadn’t eaten all day, and was already reaching for her jacket. The two women went down the stairs. Clare’s hand shook a little as she switched off the light. She took a last look around the shabby hall and pulled the weather-beaten door closed behind them.

“So tell me about this boyfriend,” said Clare, as they settled down at a free table in Muldoon’s.

“Well, he’s Italian-American. Very handsome. Even though he’s only got one hand. He could give up work but it’s a family business. The Italians are funny like that – about work, you know? Very strong ethic. He loves opera music, and he looks pretty fabulous in a tuxedo.” Brenda didn’t know why she was telling such outrageous lies, but she had started now, and she couldn’t stop. Maybe she wanted to be an entertaining dinner companion to this elegant woman who had taken such an interest in her work.

“Just order whatever you like,” said Clare. “You need feeding up, I can see. You students are terrible at taking care of yourselves. And I know how much it costs to be an artist. I was at the art college, myself, you know. For a while.”

“Here in Belfast? Really? When?”

“Too long ago. 1982. I did Fine Art, too.”

“Are you a working artist now?”

“No. I work in publishing – interiors,” Clare responded as a pretty woman in a pink wool dress came to take their order.

Penny smiled at Brenda but didn’t address her by name. Penny was a professional person, as well as being very polite. Interiors? Ah, yes, that was where she had seen this woman before – she had spoken to Penny some months before, looking for that fancy magazine.

“Chicken in sun-dried tomato sauce, and garlic wedges. Selection of bread and butter. Pot of tea. Coffee cake and whiskey ice cream,” said Brenda quickly, scanning down the menu. Then she looked at Clare. “Is that too much?”

“Not at all,” said Clare, kindly. Really, it wasn’t polite to order dessert without being invited to, but the young girl looked so hungry. “I’ll have the same, I think,” she said to a smiling Penny. Penny hurried into the kitchen to tell Daniel that Brenda Brown had found herself a rich friend. A magazine editor, no less. Maybe she was on the road to fame and fortune at last.

“So, tell me why you don’t up sticks and follow this young man of yours to America?” said Clare, as they waited for the food to arrive. “Seems such a waste, to be apart, if you care about him so much.”

“Well,” said Brenda, “it’s partly because his mother doesn’t want him to be with me. She wants him to marry a nice Italian girl, to help him in the bakery. And partly because of my career. I want to establish myself here, as an artist. It’s very important to me that my work is understood in my home town.”

“I see. Your boyfriend must be very understanding. To wait for you, I mean.”

“Yes. He is. What was the name of the fella you knew, when you lived in the flat?”

“Peter.”

“Peter what? I might have heard of him.”

“Prendergast.”

“No, don’t know any Prendergasts. Sorry. Where did you meet?”

“At a disco. We liked the same sort of music. I was crazy about music when I was younger. My favourite group was The Human League –”

“I know them. They’re still together, still giving concerts.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen them many times. And the three of them still look absolutely fantastic! I really admire them.”

Brenda studied her new acquaintance. She wore far too much make-up. Red lipstick. Red lip liner – corners on the top lip instead of soft curves. Dyed black hair. Severe bob hairstyle. That velvet coat was a bit pretentious. All those bangles jangling on her wrists. Four rings on each hand. It was a bit much, in all fairness. Still, she was a generous person; she was paying for the meal, after all. And she was very easy to talk to.

“Do you still like 80’s music?” asked Brenda.

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid I do. I love it.”

“All those wacky hairdo’s?” smiled Brenda.

“Well, I had a little penchant for men with unusual hairstyles back then.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” And she touched her fringe. “So. Tell me about your job. How do you pick the houses for your magazine?”

“I look for details that are special, unique, uplifting. Inspiring.”

Brenda had a sudden feeling that her own paintings were too depressing. Was that why she never sold anything? Should she try using a bit more colour?

Clare seemed to know what Brenda was thinking. “You know what?” she said, thoughtfully. “I think I’d like to buy one of your paintings, before I leave tomorrow. Do you think I could come round very early in the morning, and choose one before I go to the airport?”

“I’d be delighted,” said Brenda, happily. And her joy was doubled when Penny arrived with the food, and Brenda noticed at once that Penny had given them much larger helpings than Daniel would have done.

“Have you got your eye on anything in particular?” said Brenda, as she reached for the salt and pepper shakers.

“Well, yes. There was one. A small square painting.
Waiting For My Love
, I think you said it was called.”

“That’s a self-portrait. Of me. I’ll reserve it for you.”

“It’s very good. I like it very much.”

Chapter 18

C
LARE
C
ONFIDES IN
P
ENNY